by Julia Hughes
A Ripple in Time
For Pat and Bill who support more than they know.
© Julia Hughes
Editor Mervyn Walker
Talon Publishing.com
Artwork by Monica La Porta
and Alessandro Fiorini
Around midnight on the 14th April 1912, a rogue iceberg collided with a ship.
A ship thought to be the finest ever to steam across the Atlantic, a ship designed to rule the waves.
The night, though cold, remained clear and bright, the waters calm; as though Poseidon himself mocked those who had declared the ship unsinkable. Despite the monstrous gash to her starboard bow below the water line, the ship stayed afloat for hours; until finally even the gallant orchestra admitted defeat and ceased playing.
For one incongruous moment the ship balanced entirely upright on its bow. Abruptly the lights blinked out leaving a massive silhouette outlined against the night sky, shutting out the stars: a Prima Ballerina performing the Swan Lake finale. Accompanied by a host of screaming voices, gathering speed as it went, the ship plunged faster and faster beneath the oily black waters disappearing into the ocean’s depths as though it had never been.
The Titanic has ever since haunted men’s dreams.
Chapter One
A shriek of desperation followed by a muffled clanking woke Becky from her dreams. Blind terror cramped through her, and she forced open her eyes. Her fears melted at the sight of early morning sunshine flooding through sash windows into the familiar room. The receding clanking sounded friendly now, she recognised it as the rumbling of an old goods train on the tracks behind the houses opposite.
Becky smiled sleepily, stretching and entangling legs with those alongside hers. The duvet twitched as the dark haired youth beside her also stretched, causing muscles to ripple under taut tanned skin.
‘Like what you see lady?’ He teased, his soft brown eyes slanted half opened giving him a sultry expression.
Chucking a pillow at his head she said ‘Get up. It’s nearly seven.’
Leering he grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer. ‘Later. I’ve got a better idea.’
She couldn’t resist. This boy only had to touch her and she turned to jelly. She loved everything about him inside and out. Stroking his hair back from his brow, she smiled into his eyes and twittered.
‘Why Mr Jones, whatever do you mean?’
So he showed her.
Snuggling cosily in the aftermath of love, Becky tensed at the urgent buzzing of a text message.
Her irritation turned to anger when Rhyllann groped for his mobile, punched a speed dial button and rolled away from her, raising himself on an elbow to talk.
‘What’s up brawd?’
Becky curled an arm round his shoulder, nuzzling the nape of his neck, scowling when Rhyllann didn’t respond. She flounced from the bed into the bathroom, deciding to stay in there a very long time. Still Becky strained to listen over the drumming water of the shower.
‘Again! Start coffee – I’ll be down in a minute.’
Becky waited for the door to open, imagining Rhyllann’s disconcertion when he discovered it locked. But the door didn’t rattle; dressing in a rush, feeling nylon tights snag and twist against irritable damp skin, Becky swore under her breath knowing who was to blame for ruining her morning.
Rhyllann shared rooms in a three story house on the border of Notting Hill and North Kensington; and there was the catch. The geekiest kid in the world lived in the two rooms above Rhyllann: His cousin Wren. Bookish and skinny where Rhyllann epitomised physical energy. They shared a kitchen and lounge on the ground floor, a tiny square of a rear garden, and an even smaller front garden filled with old fashioned balloon like roses.
Becky muttered under her breath again as she dried her hair. Wren! Something about that kid freaked her out. Occasionally she caught him staring at her like a short sighted person trying to focus on something almost seen. Catching her looking back he’d turn his gaze away with a small pitying smile. Around three or four years ago he’d suffered a nervous breakdown of some sort and gone away somewhere. But now he was back, and suddenly the cousins seemed loaded. Becky’s friend Jo reckoned they were finally spending the cash embezzled by Wren’s mum years ago.
‘That’s how you do it. Keep it quiet, don’t go mad spending, wait for the heat to cool down and invest in property.’
Becky didn’t like that kind of talk. She was Rhyllann’s girl and refused to gossip about him or any of his family, no matter how weird. When Jo continued:
‘You know, that Wren isn’t bad looking in a strange sort of way. Has he got a girl?’
Becky snapped. ‘No, and you’re wasting your time. As far as I know he isn’t even gay.’ In her opinion, Wren was so far up his own arse he didn’t need company. Not that she’d tell Jo that. She’d hinted once of her dislike of Wren to Rhyllann. His reaction was one of “love me, put up with my cousin.”
Sighing at that memory and promising herself that Wren would be history once she got a ring on her finger, Becky took a last glance in the mirror and then crept downstairs to listen at the kitchen door.
Rhyllann spoke slowly, and sounded troubled:
‘The same dream? D’you think maybe you should see someone?’
‘Same dream. This time I got the name of the ship.’
Even Wren’s voice annoyed Becky: Crystal clear like an old time BBC programme announcer speaking to the great unwashed. Now without raising it he called.
‘Morning Becky, come in.’
Flushing like a school girl she obeyed. Rhyllann sprawled bare chested in a chair opposite Wren, who hunched in an oversized dressing gown; his face pinched and worried. Wren kept his dark blond hair short, his eyes were so pale they reflected colour, anything from navy blue to steely grey. Right now they appeared vacant, his usual expression when he looked at her.
‘Hi guys’ she breezed, trying unsuccessfully to make eye contact with Rhyllann. Honestly she could scream! Her dreams, or better still, dreams of her future together with Rhyllann should take centre stage. She kept a fixed smile on her face, determined not to ask about Wren’s silly nightmares.
Wren nodded towards the percolator, seemingly as eager to drop the subject.
‘Coffee’s ready. Help yourself.’
Anyone would think he was her boss or something.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Becky sipped her coffee standing up, thinking she should go, wishing Wren would leave first. Or better yet, didn’t exist.
‘Well, I’ll …’ Becky started; at the same time as Rhyllann spoke.
They both stopped, allowing Wren to continue laying out his plans to spend some time in the Welsh countryside.
‘So if you don’t mind – maybe I need some peace and quiet.’ He smiled guilelessly at Becky.
‘I'll leave you two in peace.’
Returning Wren's smile Becky decided he wasn’t that bad sometimes, but Rhyllann frowned.
‘I told Crombie he could stay for a couple of weeks with his girls and their friends.’
Wren squinted at his smartphone’s screen, searching for taxi numbers. ‘No worries. We kissed and made up ages ago, me and Crombie are proper mates now.’
Rhyllann have a loud 'Hah!' and Wren giggled silently: The image of tough no-nonsense Detective Crombie of the Metropolitan Force and mercurial Wren being 'proper' mates was too incongruous for words.
Becky pouted, she didn’t like reminders of the cousins' shared past; Rhyllann’s past without her.
‘Brawd … one thing’s always puzzled me – that time …’ Rhyllann broke off, and flickering a glance towards Becky, he continued in Welsh:
‘When Bates shot at Crombie, how’d you know his daughter
was getting married?’
This time Wren’s smile lifted his face. ‘All this time you’ve wondered. Doncha know I’m physic!’
He laughed out-loud at the incredulous look on Rhyllann’s face. ‘Plonker! Remember Crombie getting the box out his pocket at the hospital? His “Father of the Bride” speech fell out. I picked it up. I meant to give it back.’
Rhyllann continued to stare open mouthed.
‘It was cringe anyway.’ Wren never apologised for anything.
With a mock disapproving look Rhyllann pushed away from the table, muttering about getting dressed and going for a run before college.
‘Call me when your taxi’s here. Becks – are you staying here tonight?’
‘Maybe. I’ll text you.’ Becky tried to act cool, as though she wouldn't drop everything for a chance to be alone with Rhyllann.
Her ruse backfired when he gave a quick nod and left to go upstairs to change into sweats, leaving Becky feeling cheated somehow.
‘He’s always liked you, you know.’
Somehow Wren’s attempt to smooth her feathers had the opposite effect. Dumping her cup in the sink she wished him a good journey into Wales and banged out the front door with enough force to rattle all the front windows of the house.
Wren’s eyes remained on the door thoughtfully, as though still seeing Becky. He tolerated her, knowing she disliked him and not really caring. Although she was getting a little too close to Rhyllann for comfort, and that wouldn’t do. Stretching and yawning, he filled the sink for the cups to soak, and then wiped a dish-cloth across the table on automatic mode while his mind wandered: wondering what Becky would say if she knew the truth behind the unshakable bond he shared with Rhyllann.
Almost five years had passed since he’d persuaded Rhyllann to help recover the lost treasure of the Plantagenet King John, deep within a cavern hidden in a Cornish cave. Good old Crombie of the Met. Police chasing hot on their heels, together with a madman intent on killing anyone who got in his way. After recovering an exquisitely carved wooden box which held the final key to the treasure's whereabouts, Wren had fallen into one of Bodmin Moors bottomless lakes. If Rhyllann hadn't been so stubborn, puffing oxygen into Wren's lungs long after anyone else would have given up, Wren would have died that day.
Wren shivered as a little thrill of delight ran through him, that could be his next project, to write the whole story. It’d have to be presented as fiction of course, and he’d be careful to omit the role played by the mythical sword Caliburn, which had also been placed in the cavern, to act as a last sentential to the treasure.
Might even get turned into a film, he mused, as he headed upstairs for a quick shower. The warm scented water gushing from the power jets swept his mind clear of thought, but not before he decided on Jensen Ackles to play him, and maybe Ben Barnes or someone similar for Rhyllann.
Ablutions over, Wren collected his laptop, phone and kindle musing over Crombie’s girls, wondering if any of them were into indie bands or more into clubbing. Crombie’s eldest daughter was married, but that still left three, and they were bound to invite friends on a freebie holiday.
I’ll get Annie to come to Wales too. A week or two away from Becky should do it. The thought of killing two birds with one stone cheered him enormously: get rid of Becky and annoy Crombie at the same time. A strident horn sounded outside, Rhyllann shouted up for him to hurry. He clattered downstairs, with his rucksack banging against his back, and hurried along the narrow hallway, calling goodbye over his shoulder. As he slipped through the front door Rhyllann pounced, following Wren out onto the pavement in his eagerness to find out more.
‘Don’t leave me hanging brawd! What’s the dream ship called?’
Remnants of the dream still littered Wren’s mind like fragments of broken glass. Mentally he pieced them together feeling a rush of cold dread as he re-read the ship’s name freshly painted on each life-boat.
Rhyllann shook him. ‘Earth to planet Wren. The ship’s name?’
Even to his own ears it sounded over-melodramatic, but he said it anyway: ‘Titanic. It’s the Titanic I dream of.’
As anticipated, Rhyllann’s eyes lit up with glee at the chance to mock.
‘It sailed, it sunk - get over it.’
Wren wanted to laugh and agree with his cousin, to pretend the dreams he experienced night after night weren’t as vivid as the flagged pavestones beneath his trainers and the sunshine glinting off the waiting black cab’s roof. He hesitated too long and hated himself for not being normal, and causing concern to replace laughter in Rhyllann’s eyes. Before he could say anything, Wren hurried to reassure.
‘You’re right. It sunk one hundred years ago. I’ll stop obsessing now.’
Summoning up a cheerful smile, he patted Rhyllann’s arm and scooted into the taxi.
Rhyllann watched the black cab motoring away. Even the thought of just him and Becky and a free house couldn’t shake his sense of foreboding, the sense that something waited in the wings to rock his world.
I should have gone with him. The cab’s indicators blinked before the vehicle and occupants disappeared from sight around the corner, leaving Rhyllann with the strangest sensation that Wren had vanished from this world.
Chapter Two
Wren travelled first class to Cardiff. He travelled first class everywhere now. He’d more money than he could ever spend but he was still the same old geeky Wren, happiest with complications and schemes. Ignoring the handful of fellow passengers scattered throughout the compartment and his semi promise to Rhyllann, he googled facts on the Titanic till his eyes bleared, only stopping when his laptop battery neared exhaustion.
Instead of pulling the adaptor from his bag and fiddling around with the power sockets provided in first class he sat back, closing his eyes and running his mind over what he’d read.
The ship that haunted him had been christened the ship of dreams. But her maiden voyage turned into a nightmare in the early hours of the 15th day of April 1912. The calm black oily seas detailed in so many eye witness reports should have given a huge clue. Absence of waves is one indicator that a ship is approaching ice. The oily appearance is another, caused by the formation of frazil ice, the first stage in the development of sea ice. The gigantic iceberg itself had recently turned making it harder than usual to see on that moonless night. And crucially the lookout’s binoculars were missing, or rather the key to the locked cabinet housing them had gone missing. As midnight on the 14th day of April drew closer, for want of a nail a kingdom was lost. A recipe for disaster.
A buzzing tone invaded his musings, checking his mobile he saw he had a message from Rhyllann.
“Ring when yr in Wales.” As he read it, another text buzzed in. This time from Becky.
“R. told me yr dream. Try to warn someone. LOL.”
She seemed upbeat, probably pleased to think he was losing his mind again. Wren couldn’t care less: this time next year Becky would be history.
Becky and her daytime telly wisdom – if only it could be that simple. Closing his eyes he allowed the rhythm of the train’s wheels to lull him to sleep.
He dreamed of the girl again. A muddled confused dream and in his sleep he twitched and muttered anxiously.
‘Do something. For the love of God, do something.’
APRIL 1912 – Carina’s dream.
Carina sat as though in school; instead of a slate somehow an eerie pool of green glowed unnaturally. The waters rippled but didn’t spill onto the table. Newspaper headlines rose before her incongruous eyes.
WORLD’S LARGEST SHIP:
‘Unsinkable.’ States owner Mr J. Bruce Ismay.
TITANIC’S MAIDEN VOYAGE:
‘We’ll set a new Atlantic Crossing Record.’ Cpt. E. J. Smith.
TRAGEDY AT SEA:
‘Titanic sinks. Thousands feared drowned. Liverpool, London and New York in mourning.’
Carina’s eyes flickered from one headline to another, her hand stealing to her mouth, swal
lowing down the scream. The photographs, my lord, the photographs. She looked closer at the blank faced women huddled beneath blankets, bewildered children clinging to them.
TITANIC: US Senate Investigation:
‘Human error to blame. Scandal of the half empty lifeboats.’
Even in her dream state bile burned her chest. Carina’s gaze continued to flicker from one headline to another, constantly drawn back to the black and white images of survivors, searching for two little faces in particular.
Inside her head a voice sounded.
‘Do something. For the love of God, do something.’
‘No!’ With this cry of anguish, Carina woke herself up, and then placed a hand on top of her heart, trying to still its frantic beating. Those dreams, they were so real – and the newspaper headlines! Carina shivered at the recollection; she’d never in a million years be able to drag anything so specific from her own imagination. This could only be a sign, a forewarning. Somehow someone tried to warn of a terrible disaster yet to happen: Although everyone said the Titanic was unsinkable, and the great ship was almost half way to America, the feeling of dread that lined her stomach since she’d stepped onboard, even before she’d started having those awful nightmares, refused to leave her.
Carina’s bunk shook as the small form of Peggy darted into bed beside her, to be quickly joined by her sister Alice. Both girls burrowed under Carina’s arms for an early morning cuddle. Clutching them close, inhaling their sweet toddler mustiness, Carina knew the voice was right; she had to do something. The woman she shared a room with, Martha, treated her like one of her own daughters. As did Martha's husband, Jimmy, who was working his passage on board as a steward. Carina buried her face into first Peggy's, then Alice's hair, renewing her determination to keep these two little imps safe:
If I ask Jimmy nicely – just as a special favour to keep an extra eye open; especially on the eve of April 14.